Seventh Period is Band
by Writeous
Summary: Lawrence High School is a wondrous place, filled with love and friendship and mass amounts of drama. That's not even including what goes on in their band. Marching Band AU. Co-written with Technical Tragedy, and cross-posted on AO3.


**There will be a whole bunch of ships in this fic. Beware.**

* * *

In the beginning, there was a band. At first glance, this band was normal, but once you looked a little closer, and maybe listened a bit, too, you realized that most of the kids in this band were actually crazy.

There are trombones in this band, and tubas. Some people are percussionists. There are clarinets and trumpets and saxophones and flutes and baritones and French horns and even an oboe and a piccolo in this band.

The trombones and tubas sit next to each other, and in this there is a problem.

"Mr. Shurley, I need to talk to you." Dean Winchester, who plays the trombone, announced one day at preseason, planting his hands on the band director's desk.

The man looked up from his grade book, feeling slightly nervous about the confrontational pose and tone his student had assumed. "Yes, Mr. Winchester?" Chuck managed not to stutter, and internally praised himself.

"I have a bit of a problem with where I'm sitting." Dean's voice turned pleading. "You gotta move me out of the trombone section, Mr. Shurley."

Chuck blinked. "Why would I do that? You have a nice section going on back there." It was a lie and they both knew it.

"Oh, please, Mr. Shurley. I'm terrible at the trombone," Dean scoffed.

"But why do you want to move? Are you having problems with the other trombone players?"

Dean's eyes turned haunted. "You don't know what goes on back there."

Chuck narrowed his eyes, watching Dean over the top of his glasses, and then realization seemed to sweep over his features. He opened a drawer in his desk and grabbed something, holding it out to Dean.

"A doll?" Dean raised an eyebrow at Mr. Shurley.

"Where did they touch you, Dean?" It was more of a demand than a question.

Dean went rigid, recoiling and making a disgusted face. "Oh GOD no, that's not what I meant at all!"

"Dean, you can tell me. You're in a safe environment. I will not judge you." Chuck's brow creased. "What did they do to you, Dean? You can trust me. I can get you the help you need."

"Mr. Shurley, I promise you they did not violate me. I just want to move out of the section. Move me to percussion or something!" Dean was almost pressed against the wall by then, trying to get away.

Chuck stared at him for a few moments, before nodding and setting the doll down. He looked back up at Dean, who was more relaxed. "Percussion. Are you sure, Dean? Last time we tested you for percussion it went horribly."

Chuck remembered that day. It had been a nice day; they were testing the students to see what instruments they'd be best at. Everything had been going well until Dean Winchester arrived and tried out for percussion. It had been horrifying, how completely off-rhythm he was. Chuck had patted out 'Mary Had A Little Lamb' and Dean had responded with something akin to a three-year-old who'd found an empty pot and some wooden spoons to play drums on attempting to replicate the rhythm from 'Eye of the Tiger.'

"It wasn't that bad!" Dean protested, snapping Chuck out of the memory.

The band director raised his eyebrows. "To be frank, Dean, you have no qualification to be a percussionist. Your sense of rhythm is the worst I've ever seen and I think you're better on trombone."

Dean blinked at him, and then came to a decision. "Mr. Shurley. I don't know what to do. They're so... They treat me so badly. I go home and cry sometimes, because of all the things they say. It's started to follow me outside of the band room, too. They harass me, Mr. Shurley." Dean sniffled for added effect. "I need to get away from them. Please help me. You said you would."

Chuck nodded, looking a little misty-eyed. "Of course I'll help you, Dean. I didn't know it was so bad. You can move over to percussion, but on one condition." He laced his fingers together. "You have to promise that you'll come to me if you need help."

Dean blinked, "Um. Okay. Thanks, Mr. Shurley." With that, Dean beat a hasty retreat, knowing that the percussion section was the place for him, that he wouldn't have to deal with creepy guys who seemed hell-bent on disturbing him as much as possible there.

Oh, how wrong he was.

What Dean forgot is that Gabriel Novak was the percussion section leader.

"Deano! What are you doing here? Not that I'm not overjoyed to see you, but shouldn't you be with your section?" Gabe asks when Dean approaches at the start of October, as if he hadn't noticed that the percussion section gains an extra member on the couple of occasions when Bobby thinks he's good enough to practice with the others.

"I'm a percussionist now, have been for a while, actually" Dean tells him, jutting his jaw out a bit and holding himself a bit straighter.

Gabe raises his eyebrows. "That's weird. Why would he transfer you? What did you do?"

Dean huffs. "I don't have to explain anything to you. Just tell me what instrument you want me on."

Gabe smirks, but refrains from commenting. He crosses his arms and looks Dean over, humming to himself. "Try the snare," he says, finally. "You know how?"

Dean scowls a bit, and doesn't answer, walking over to the snare and taking up the sticks. He holds them awkwardly and wrongly, and the snare isn't at the right height for him. Gabe decides that, no, he doesn't know how, and goes over to help him.

He crouches in front of the drum and raises it so it's about to Dean's bellybutton. Dean raises an eyebrow at him when he stands.

"Why'd you raise it?" he asks, to which Gabriel responds by rolling his eyes and slipping behind Dean to grab his hands and adjust them so he's holding the sticks correctly. He releases Dean.

"Try playing a bit," Gabe tells him, and Dean does. Gabe shakes his head. "Not like that." He takes Dean's hands again. "Like this." He hits the snare a few times. "Try again." It's better that time, but Gabe decides he needs more help.

Dean feels heat in his cheeks as Gabe practically plasters himself to Dean's back and helps him play. He's mortified and uncomfortable and really wishes Gabe would just leave him alone, but doesn't wish it as much as he does when he feels Gabe's breath against his ear and hears, "Give me your brother's phone number."

Dean jerks away from Gabe as if the shorter man had burned him. "What? Hell no!"

Gabe pouts and crosses his arms. "Why not? C'mon, Deano! Just giving me his number is harmless!"

Dean scowls. "No. I'm not going to give you Sam's number. You freak him out, man. You're like his stalker. He complains about you all the time."

Gabe's eyes light up. "He talks about me?"

Dean sighs. "I'm not giving you his number, Gabe."

Gabe huffs. "Fine then. I'll just go ask Mr. Shurley to move you back to the trombone section."

Dean pauses. "You wouldn't."

Gabe grins. "Oh, but I would."

There's a long silence, filled with tension.

Finally Dean groans. "Oh, fine. Give me your phone, I'll program it in."

Gabe's grin stretches, and he digs his phone out of his pocket, handing it to Dean.

Dean unlocks it and finds Gabriel's contacts, opening a new one. As he starts entering the numbers, he gets an idea, and barely manages to contain his smile as he enters the number. He puts it under the name 'Winchester' and hands the phone back to Gabe after saving it.

Gabriel grins again and thanks him, clearly thinking he's won.

Gabe returns to teaching Dean how to play the snare, and across the band room his younger brother and Sam are at it again.

"I'm far better than you are, Sam," Castiel crows, smiling smugly, having just won another challenge between himself and Sam Winchester, and reclaiming first chair.

"Oh yeah?" Sam curls his lip. "I challenge you! Again! We'll see who's really better."

"It's obviously me, or else I wouldn't have won. You should accept your defeat, and stop trying." Castiel sneers at him. "Your clarinet squeaked no less than three times during today's challenge," he accuses.

Sam scowls, and opens his mouth to reply, but Samandriel's voice interrupts what would've been a biting retort. "Oh, joy; you've challenged each other again. Who's first chair today?"

Castiel's smile returns. "Hello, Alfie. I'm first chair, of course."

"Of course," Samandriel grumbles as he sits down in his seemingly-permanent position of third chair.

All noise ceases as two sounds rise above all the others. Two sounds that we're never meant to mix, but did, in an unholy cacophony. It was Meg and Bela, their oboe and piccolo players, respectively.

Mr. Singer's scowl is practically audible, even from within his office. The man himself storms out a few moments after the horrendous duo begins playing, and sure enough, he's scowling. "Mr. Shurley told you not to play your instruments before class starts." He looks pointedly at Meg and Bela.

Bela smiles innocently. "No he didn't."

Mr. Singer's scowl deepens impossibly. "Well I'm telling you now."

Meg honks rebelliously, and the band winces as one.

The bell rings, and Meg honks some more, slowly increasing in pitch and volume.

From the percussion section, Adam whispers, "No, Meg. Think of the children."

Her horrible honks halt, and the band is amazed. It's a miracle! No wait, it's just Tuesday.

Adam smiles, satisfied with himself. He's a good guy. Gabe looks over at him, and gives him an appreciative nod. Adam's heart skips a beat, and he feels heat rush to his cheeks, and some... other places, which will not be mentioned at this time. It's odd that a simple nod could affect him in this way, but hey, he's a teenage boy.

Adam sees Dean turn slightly in his direction before facing the front again. Looks like he'd forgotten about him. Again. Like that dark day in the fourth grade, with the grocery store incident. Dean may claim it was an accident, but Adam knows it wasn't. Damn you, Dean Winchester.

Mr. Shurley emerges from his office, and steps up onto the podium, raising his hands for silence, even though no-one is talking.

"Alright guys, it's a new month, new day, and we have a football game this week!" There is a mixed reaction about this, some people cheering, but some people, like Sam and Dean Winchester, who just feel muted horror.

Adam, in the back, barely stifles his grin. Football games mean more time spent with Gabe, so Adam loves football games.

"Do you know what that means?" Chuck enthuses, grinning widely. No-one answers. He sighs. "It means we get to march, that's what it means. We've been practicing since July, so we should have everything down pretty well by now, right? We have good music, a good theme, and a great band, so this year should be the best in a while!"

Everyone rolls their eyes at this. Everyone.

Mr. Shurley looks around the assembled students hopefully, but after receiving no further reaction, he sighs, waving a hand. "Get out the, uh- the Chorale one. Chorale and Alleluia? That one. Get it out."

With that, the rehearsal starts.

When the 55 minute class period ends, bringing the school day to a close along with it, and everyone starts rushing to pack up and go home, Adam Winchester is taking his time, knowing that if he goes too slow Dean is liable to forget him here, but if he goes too fast he'll miss Gabe as he exits the band room.

As soon as Gabe starts walking towards the door, Adam straightens from where he was pretending to be putting things in his backpack, and falls into step beside Gabe. "So, Gabe," he starts, like he does every day.

The golden-eyed percussionist sighs. "Is this about the triangle again?"

Adam huffs. "Gabe, you put Dean on the snare. Dean has the rhythm sense of a deaf goldfish."

Gabe gasps, cutting Adam a glare. "Don't you talk about Sam's brother like that!"

Adam scowls. "I'm Sam's brother too, you know!"

This actually makes Gabe stop walking, and he stares at Adam incredulously. "Really? You're Sam's brother? I knew your name was Winchester and all, but I thought it was just a coincidence or something."

Adam shakes his head. "Nope. I'm his brother."

Gabe eyes him thoughtfully, pursing his lips. "Interesting."

Adam feels hope in his chest. "Wait, does this mean I may get to play something other than the triangle?"

Gabe grins at him, but then his face grows serious. "Adam," he says, putting his hands on the blue-eyed boy's shoulders. "Tell me what the foundation of the band is."

Adam blinks, too busy freaking out on the inside about the weight and warmth of Gabriel's hands on him for the words to sink in. When they do, he blinks again. "Uh, tuba?"

Gabriel shakes his head. "No."

Adam wrinkles his nose. "Bass drum?"

"Nope," Gabriel says, popping the p.

Adam thinks for a few moments, then shrugs. "I don't know."

Gabe sighs, rolling his eyes exasperatedly. "It's the triangle, buddy. It may not be the flashiest instrument, or the biggest, or the loudest, or the most noticeable, but trust me, we need our triangle player. We'd be lost without you!"

Adam sighs. "I'm guessing that's a no to switching instruments?"

Gabriel grins, clapping his shoulders. "Got it in one, hon. Have fun playing the triangle!" He releases Adam and walks away, leaving the younger to stare after him.

Adam is brought back to the present when Dean honks the Impala's horn at him. He scurries to the car, apologizing as he slides into the backseat.

Dean doesn't reply as he follows the procession of cars out of the parking lot, instead starting a half –hearted conversation with Sam, but it's not like Adam expected anything different.

When the Winchester boys get home after a car ride of too-loud rock music, Adam hurries upstairs; not wanting to spend any more time than is necessary in Dean's company when he's in a mood.

After a few minutes spent fruitlessly trying to get his homework done, Adam receives a call from a number he doesn't recognize. He answers it anyway.

"Hello?"

_"Sam?"_ It's Gabriel on the other end. Adam holds the phone away from his face, stares at it, screams internally, then decides to pretend to be Sam.

"Gabe?" Adam tries to sound as much like Sam as he can.

_"Are you okay? You sound kinda weird."_ Gabe actually sounds concerned.

"Uh, I've got a bit of a cold," Adam lies, hoping Gabriel will buy it.

_"Really? You looked fine at school - you looked fine as hell - so what happened?"_

Adam swallows nervously. "Um, I don't know. It's weird. I didn't feel bad, but on the drive home I started feeling sick."

_"Do you need me to get you some chicken noodle soup? I can be over in ten minutes,"_ Gabe offers.

"Oh, uh, no, but that's a nice offer. It won't be necessary."

_"Are you sure?"_

Adam grins, "I'm sure."

The youngest Winchester glances out the window, and catches sight of something on the telephone wire.

A pair of shoes.

Down the street, the person who those shoes belong to holds a plastic baggie in one hand, and the other is extended towards the baggie's intended recipient. "You know how this works, darling. You pay first, then I give you what you want."

There is a huff from underneath the person's hood. "I'm not here for your drugs, Crowley. I told you I was coming over to hang out."

Crowley pauses, thinking, then snaps his fingers, remembering, "Of course! Come on in, Ruby. I'll put the kettle on."

Ruby pushes her hood off of her head as she enters Crowley's house. "You know I don't drink tea," she murmurs absently as she glances around. No, his house still doesn't look like it belongs to an eighteen-year-old drug ringmaster. She still doesn't know what exactly to refer to him as.

From her left, Crowley chuckles, "Oh, you'll like this tea. I promise."

He looks out the window, and scowls. "The police are sniffing around again. It's bad for business." The cop car cruises past, and keeps going down the road, past the Winchester house, where Dean spots it out of the kitchen window.

"Cops are hanging around again, Sammy!" he calls out to his younger brother, who's waiting with Jess for dinner to be ready.

Sam paid no mind to his brother's comment, who in turn moves to check the pot of soup boiling over the stove.

In the adjoining room, Jess twirls a silver spoon absentmindedly between her fingers. She's perched on the edge of the dining chair, near the end of the long table. Sam all but falls into the seat across from her, and she lifts her eyebrows in surprise. He puts his hands on the table palms down to steady himself, leaning forward.

She knows that expression, "What happened?"

Sam grins, "Ava kissed Andy behind the bleachers Friday."

Jess's nose wrinkles, "But isn't she...isn't she dating Azazel?"

Sam nods eagerly, "Since, like, the 8th grade. By far the longest relationship Lawrence has ever seen."

"Does Azzy know?" she asks, getting caught up in his crazy excitement.

"Nope," Sam says, smirking, "As he shouldn't. Serves him right."

"Sam-"

"He knows I'm not going to join the freaking football team. Why can't he realize I'm not going to join the football team?"

"Sam," Jess cuts him off forcefully, cutting his spiel off before he can fully get into it. She pauses, "Wait… weren't you with me the entire time at the game?"

Sam stops, mouth opening and closing for a moment before he speaks, "Was I?"

Jess nods, "Yeah, you were. I vividly remember saving you and Dean from Luke and Mike."

Both sophomores ignore the loud, "I resent that!" from the kitchen.

Sam sighs, looking into the far off distance before he says, "Look, Jess, I figure it's time you know."

"Know what?" Jess demands.

"About my… about my people."

"Your people?" Jess asks; skepticism heavy in her words as she stills the spoons movements in her hand.

"My circle, if you will." This time, when Sam smiles, it's a little bit different, a little more feral.

"And what, exactly, do you specifically mean by 'circle'?" she shifts her posture to match Sam's, setting the utensil down.

Sam shrugs, "They're just some people I managed to get some dirt on, you know? I know some stuff they don't really want others to get wind of, so they sort of… help me out."

Jess blinks at him, "Blackmail, Sam? I thought you were better than that."

Before Sam can answer, Dean chooses that moment to poke his head out of the kitchen, staring at his younger brother, "Hold up, you mean to tell me that you're running an underground gossip ring by making people do crap for you for the price of their deepest, darkest secrets?"

Dean doesn't wait for Sam's response, "That's some messed up Crowley stuff right there. Dude, how'd you even get that kind of information?"

Sam picks at the tablecloth, "Oh, dear brother of mine, do you remember Rhonda Hurley?"

Dean visibly pales, "I-"

He's interrupted by a spurt of smoke behind him, and with a quick curse, he rushes off to attend to his precious home-made tomato concoction.

After he leaves the two in peace, Jess continues, "No, but seriously, blackmail?"

"Not exactly…" Sam hesitates, checking to make sure Dean is gone before lowering his voice and beckoning her closer, "Listen, alright, I swear I would never let anything slip, honest, but they really don't need to know that, now do they?"

Jess stares at him, and then leans back in her chair, crossing her arms, "So who told you about Ava?"

"You know Madison from Mr. Frank's class? Yeah, she told me in the passing period between 3rd and 4th."

"So all of these_ 'people'_," she makes quotation marks with her fingers around the word, "they just… get you information?"

Sam moves to rest against the back of his chair, a definite smirk on his lips. His eyes are wild, "Oh, Jess. I don't just have _'people'_. I have an _army_."


End file.
